Chapter 14
Don could scarcely believe it. Had Arlene really asked him to sit down and eat with her? Since he’d arrived in Hollywood, she’d treated him like a fruit fly in her kitchen. Ultimately harmless, but annoying all the same. But he couldn’t take advantage of her hospitality.
Besides, he was frankly exhausted. Doing ten- to twelve-hour days on set followed by gigs at the Clover Club was taking a lot out of him. Frankie had claimed he booked the week of shows to try to get Don and Eleanor more exposure and opportunities on the West Coast. But Don feared it was more about Frankie having an inkling that something was not kosher. That it was a way to punish Don. Get him to let his guard down. Maybe even fail at the picture so that he couldn’t afford to buy out his contract. Brute force, not manipulative stealth was Frankie’s modus operandi, but maybe from afar he preferred to wear Don down to a nub until he was too tired to do anything but what Frankie told him. Well, Don wasn’t going to let that happen. He’d go eat the cheapest thing on the menu with Eddie and go home and straight to bed. “No, I can’t expect you to buy me dinner.”
Arlene blushed. “ I wouldn’t be buying you dinner. Consider it per diem from Harry Evets.”
“When you put it that way, it’s hard to argue with you.” He was starving, if he was being honest. Trying to save every penny, he’d only been eating a large lunch at the studio commissary, skipping breakfast and dinner.
“So, don’t argue then. Say yes.”
He pondered his options. Saying yes meant telling Eddie what was up, which would open a whole can of worms. Not to mention the fact that he was already struggling to keep things strictly professional with Arlene. That kiss last week still haunted him, the ghost of her lips against his reminding him how she was not at all the girl he’d left waving at him on a train platform.
But this was a business dinner between a director and her leading man. There were probably a dozen other people in the restaurant doing the same thing at this very moment. There was no reason it needed to be anything else. And he could use a good meal. Or three.
“Okay, let me go ditch Eddie.”
Arlene laughed. “Tell him I need to give you notes on your performance.” Don raised his eyebrows and pressed his hands to his heart, as if she had wounded him. Her warm chuckle erupted into a full-throated laugh. “What? It’s not that outlandish.”
“Careful, you might bruise my ego.”
“I don’t know, from what I hear from New York, your ego could use an uppercut or two.”
“Ouch. You have grown up, haven’t you?”
“What does that mean?”
“You’ve learned to use your claws.” He winked at her when he said it, hoping she knew he was joking. That he was proud of her and her sassy retorts. She’d been a sensitive kid, romantic and gentle to a fault. He’d always worried that the movie business would be too rough-and-tumble a place for her kind heart. But he shouldn’t have doubted her. Hell, maybe her sensitivity had been an asset. After all, his arrogance had blinded him and landed him in a bigger mess than Arlene could possibly imagine.
Don wanted to know more about what she’d heard about him from New York. What she knew about his life there and his career. And if she’d heard any rumblings of Frankie, of the questionable company he kept because he had no choice. Guilty by association. He hoped not. The less she knew about Frankie, the better. The memory of his nightmare the other evening, of Mabel’s scarred face, sent a chill down his spine.
Was this dinner a terrible idea? Was he putting her in Frankie’s crosshairs by breaking bread with her in a public setting? No, he was being paranoid. Because he had a second chance to start fresh with her. That’s what he’d been hoping for since that first night when he’d walked on the soundstage—ready to feel like a kid again, like the boy he’d once been with her—and found her less than thrilled to see him. He couldn’t ask more of her. Hell, he couldn’t risk more. But surely, this was all right. He realized he’d been standing there saying nothing for a few seconds too long. “Erm, I will go tell Eddie then.”
She seemed to shrug off his strange behavior. “I’ll go get us a table.”
Don watched Arlene as she went, grabbing the purse she’d left at the bar and heading to the ma?tre d’.
He girded his loins and found Eddie, who was in the midst of arguing with a waiter about why they didn’t serve chocolate egg creams here. Don resisted the urge to roll his eyes and tapped his friend on the shoulder. “Hey, uh, I can’t eat with you anymore.”
Eddie scrunched up his face in confusion. “What do you mean? If it’s the money, I’ll spot you. You can pay me back once you’re a big movie star.”
Don sighed. Ever the optimist, Eddie. “No, it’s not that. I need to have dinner with Arlene.” Eddie waggled his eyebrows, which made Don’s eye start to twitch. “It’s not like that. She wants to go over next week’s scenes with me. Strictly professional.”
Arlene had given him the lie, why not use it?
“Sure, okay, the drugstore has better food anyway.” Eddie downed the last of the fizzy concoction sitting in front of him and sprang from his chair, clapping Don on the back with a bit too much force. “Good luck with your ‘business meeting.’” Don could swear Eddie chuckled as he walked away, but at least he’d left with little fuss.
He turned around to see Arlene nestled in a booth at the back. She fluttered her fingers at him, making sure he saw her, and he dodged the busboys and red-jacketed waiters clogging the narrow walkways to reach her.
“I took the liberty of ordering for both of us.” She scooted over as he slid in the booth. “I got us both prime rib and a baked potato, best thing on the menu.”
“But that’s—”
“Don’t you dare say it’s too expensive. I had a feeling you wouldn’t order it yourself, which is why I ordered for you. Remember, it’s all on Harry’s dime. And believe me, he can afford it. Maybe he will have to skip buying his latest wife some jewelry this week.”
Don smiled. Arlene seemed much more comfortable here than she did on the soundstage in director mode. Particularly when it came to the subject of Harry Evets. “You’re sure he won’t mind? You seemed afraid of the guy on set.”
Arlene bit her lip, and he could tell she was weighing what to say. “I owe everything to Harry. Well, to Joan really. But to Harry via Joan. And so, I feel comfortable joking about his foibles among friends. But on set, he could make or break me—and I have to get everything right. You’ve seen the crew, how they barely tolerate me. If I lose Harry’s respect, I’m done for. They’ll mutiny. So, I have to prove to him that I’m capable and up to the challenge. Because as I said before, it’s not just about me.”
Don wanted to point out that she’d called him a friend. But he didn’t want to ruin the moment. “Is our work ever just about us?”
She looked thoughtful at that. “No, I suppose not. We’re all trying to prove something. To ourselves. To the world.”
“Ain’t that the truth.” He laughed, unable to keep a bitter note from his voice. But Arlene had it a lot tougher than he did. “You’ve got higher stakes though. If I make a hash of things, it’s not going to ruin the chances of every Italian guy who likes to dance.”
She threw her head back and laughed. For a moment, he was in their backyard, telling her a joke and watching her entire body flush and shake with mirth. He hadn’t missed much about California. But he realized now how much he’d missed her. She reached for her drink, which she’d brought with her from the bar, and sipped from it.
“You know, a week ago, I would’ve said that in your case, your work is only ever about you.”
“What do you mean?”
“It didn’t seem like you ever cared that much about anyone you left behind. Hell, you even changed your name.”
That one stung. Because he had changed it on purpose so no one could trace him back to his father and their working-class roots. But he still tried to defend himself. “I had to change it. Don Lazzarini doesn’t exactly look great on a marquee.”
She rolled her eyes. “We both know why you changed it, Don, and it’s got nothing to do with the marquee.”
“Fine, I changed it because of my old man. Is that what you want me to say? That the idea of him even getting an ounce of credit for my success, for my hard work, makes my blood boil.”
He tugged at the collar of his shirt and gesticulated wildly with his other hand. He didn’t like discussing this. She eyed his hand nervously, and he sheepishly put it back on the table. He’d spent too much time around gangsters and tough guys. She gave him a look of understanding. “I’m not accusing you of anything, Don. I get it. I grew up next door to him, you know. I saw how he treated you. The walls in our house were thin.”
“Then, what do you mean, my work seemed only about me?” He was being defensive and he knew it. But he wanted—no, needed— to understand why she’d been so cold since he’d come back. Maybe this was the key.
She continued. “Watching you rise to the top, I don’t know, it seemed like Don Lamont was the only thing that mattered to you. Your life was the Don Lamont show, to hell with everyone and everything else.”
Her pronouncement hit him like a sock in the jaw. He knew he’d neglected her. At first, because he was embarrassed about how poorly he was doing. The many nights he went hungry. The holes in his shoes as he tried to hoof his way to fame and fortune. She’d written many letters those first few months. He hadn’t answered a single one, promising himself he’d write when he made good. Partly because he didn’t want any of his struggles getting back to his father, verifying his grumbles that Don would never amount to anything.
Then, success came. But it came with Frankie. And he’d learned quite quickly that getting close to anyone was a dangerous game. But he didn’t realize that Arlene cared so much. She’d stopped writing, except for the wire when her father died. He figured that she’d moved on with her life. He never thought for a moment that he had the power to hurt her. So long as he kept her away from Frankie. “I was eighteen years old when I left, Arlene. I was an idiot.” He tried to play off his neglect as teenage obliviousness, but he immediately regretted it.
She chuckled, but there was still something sad in her voice. “You can say that again.” He wanted to take hold of that thread and tug it until he unraveled the truth behind her words. But he wasn’t willing to break this fragile détente. Besides, she was right. He had been selfish and shortsighted.
Hearing her talk about the past made him want to know everything about the decade of her life he’d missed. How she’d met Joan. What had inspired her Oscar-winning script. If she had a beau. But their shared past seemed the easiest place to start. “How’s your family?”
The question transformed her cheery face. She looked sad, like someone had placed a heavy weight upon her shoulders. She gave him a half smile, clearly trying to pretend she was okay. He wanted to hug her, to squeeze her hand and tell her it was going to be all right. But he knew that she wouldn’t welcome that. “They’re good. Mom wanted to sell the boat after Dad died.” Her voice broke a little at that, but she reached for her cocktail, took a sip, and continued. “But Bill decided to take it over, keep the family business going. He got married four years ago, to Nancy Fabrici, who lived down the street. You remember her?”
“The broad that every guy in the neighborhood had a thing for?”
“That’s the one. Somehow my dunderheaded brother was the one to catch her eye.” Don felt a surge of warmth. Arlene had always said her brother, Bill, was a couple of pancakes short of a full stack, but she adored him anyway. “They’ve got two kids. Two boys. Little terrors. And Mom is…Mom. She’s so proud of you. Still cuts out every article about you that she can find and tacks it to the fridge until she can replace it with the next one.”
His heart swelled. He sort of assumed that when he’d forgotten about everyone back home, they’d forgotten him too. It was only fair. But God, Mrs. Morgan had clipped stories about him from the papers? He should’ve known. That was the kind of people they were. Once you knew them, you were family. Whether you liked it or not. And he had liked that once. Hell, he’d loved it. When his own home had felt stifling and unbearable, the Morgans’ house had always been a safe haven.
At that moment their food arrived. Don’s eyes almost popped out of his head at the huge slab of meat on his plate and the steaming baked potato. It smelled like heaven. He resisted sticking his finger in the side of horseradish and licking it off. He hadn’t eaten this well since he’d left New York. Hell, he didn’t know if he’d eaten this well since the first time that he left California. He cut a tiny sliver of the prime rib, dipped it in the horseradish, and popped it in his mouth. It melted on his tongue. “Good God!”
Arlene giggled. “Good, right?”
“Heavenly.” He wasn’t even exaggerating.
They sat in a comfortable silence for a while, enjoying the quiet that descended upon a table when the food was hot and delicious and demanded all of their attention. He was happy that Arlene was warming up to him, that they were finding their way back to each other. And this meal was maybe the best thing he’d ever eaten.
Dotting her mouth with her napkin, Arlene looked at him as if she were weighing whether she should ask him something. Then she inquired, “Why didn’t you come home for Dad’s funeral?”
The question pierced his heart. “I…couldn’t.” He didn’t want to admit the real reason. That Frankie had kept her telegram from him. That he’d found out too late because Frankie didn’t want anything to interrupt the European tour. Particularly not a funeral that would’ve required traveling halfway around the world. Because any hiccup in the touring schedule would’ve meant trouble with the gangsters Frankie answered to. And that would’ve meant trouble for Arlene and her family in the end. He’d even had to pretend he didn’t care about the telegram. For all their sakes.
“You couldn’t? Or you wouldn’t because you didn’t want to face your own parents?”
He cringed. Of course, she’d think that. “I promise you, Arlene, if I had been able to, nothing, not even the hounds of hell, would’ve prevented me from being at your old man’s service. I owe everything to him.”
She looked down at her plate then, suddenly very interested in her baked potato. He knew she was trying to hide the fact that she was crying, but he fished his handkerchief out of his pocket and handed it to her all the same. She took it without saying a word. After a few moments, she gave him a watery smile. “He loved you so much, you know.”
“I know. There hasn’t been a day of my life that I haven’t wished I was born a Morgan instead of a Lazzarini. I loved him too. I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I got your wire weeks after the funeral had already passed. It crushed me to find out I’d missed it.”
“Why didn’t you write back?”
“I thought it would be too little too late.”
She nodded, still clearly shaken, but trying to play it off as if it didn’t matter what he did. He could see right through her though, and his bite of potato turned to ash in his mouth as something dawned on him. Was this why Arlene hadn’t been herself around him? Because he hadn’t bothered to write when the most important man in his life had died? Suddenly, he wanted her to lash out at him, scream, throw a napkin, something. Anything was better than her silent acceptance of his neglect.
He was a heel. He could’ve done more. He should’ve written. How hard would it have been to send a wire expressing his condolences? He could’ve told Frankie the telegram was for a cousin or something. He’d spent so long living in fear of his manager and what Frankie might do to anyone Don cared about that he’d closed himself off entirely. For what? A dancing career with Eleanor Lester?
For the thousandth time that day alone, Don cursed Frankie Martino. Not only had he not been able to honor the memory of someone he’d loved, but now he’d hurt Arlene too. But he didn’t know what to say to her because they were edging increasingly closer to dangerous ground. Frankie had indirectly hurt Arlene enough, even when she didn’t know the truth. He needed to switch to a happier subject. “Tell me something, are the famous Morgan Sunday dinners still a thing?”
That banished the last of the tears from her eyes. “Of course they are! I still drive down to Pedro every weekend if I’m not on location.”
“Good to know some things haven’t changed.” He took a last bite of his prime rib, trying to savor it. It was incredible to be here, eating a meal like this with the girl who’d once known him better than anyone else on this earth. And to feel a little like a stranger in his own skin.
“Like us, you mean?” She gave him a pointed look and drained her cocktail.
“Yeah, I guess so. I’d say you’ve changed for the better though.” He met her gaze and gave her a meaningful look. There it was again, the inexorable pull toward her he’d felt that day on set when they’d kissed. As strong and as inevitable as gravity. But he couldn’t give in to it again. Not if he wanted this rapport between them to last. He broke away and looked at his plate. He could swear he heard a mournful little puff of air escape her mouth.
“I can’t say the same for you,” she murmured. He looked up at her then, expecting to find censure in her eyes. But instead, mischief and mirth were sparkling there. She was teasing him. God, he’d forgotten what that felt like.
“Personally, I think I’ve aged like a fine wine.” He winked at her, starting to feel more himself again.
“Ha! This is exactly what I mean—or were you always this arrogant and I never noticed?”
“Oh, you definitely never noticed.” They both laughed then, and his shoulders relaxed. This was the first time he’d been able to be around her and not feel like he was walking on eggshells. He only had himself to blame for virtually disappearing from her life. Add the pressure she was feeling with the picture, and of course it made sense why she’d been on edge. But it was nice to find this again. This ease and comfort in each other’s company. He’d taken it for granted as a kid. Apparently, he’d taken a lot of things for granted.
The busboys came and cleared their plates, asking if they wanted to see the dessert menu. Arlene said yes as he declined. They looked at each other. “It’s still on the Evets Studios tab,” she reminded him.
“No, it’s just… I wanna look good for the picture.”
She rolled her eyes. “Like you won’t dance it all off tomorrow.” She looked at the waiter. “We’ll split the icebox cake.”
Don chuckled. “All right, I know when I’ve been beaten in a fight.”
“I haven’t beat you,” she insisted. “I know what’s best for you, that’s all.”
Maybe she did. Maybe she always had. Heaven knew he’d found a way to make a complete disaster of his life these last ten years without her by his side. Regardless, he liked this version of her. Self-assured. Confident. Taking charge. Not at all the meek kid sister he’d known as a boy. The only trouble was he was developing less-than-brotherly feelings for her. He’d had every pair of his trousers tailored to show off his feet and his butt when he danced, but right this moment he wished he hadn’t made all of them quite so tight in the groin. He could use some breathing room.
Their cake arrived before he had time to blink, and she dangled a spoon in front of him, urging him to take the first bite. He did and she looked at him expectantly. “Delicious, but not as good as your mother’s apple pie.”
She looked proud then, as if he’d paid her the compliment, not her mother. He envied her. That closeness, that unconditional love. He’d never had that with his own parents. It had only ever been guilt and judgment.
Her eyes sparkled and he could swear he saw the ghost of a light bulb turn on above her head. “Do you have plans on Sunday?”
Was she asking what he thought she was asking? “No, so long as I don’t have to be anywhere with Eleanor.” She made a face at the mention of Eleanor, and he couldn’t help it. He laughed. That was exactly how Eleanor Lester made him feel too.
“What’s so funny?” she asked.
“You.” He chuckled. “Your distaste for Eleanor.”
Her face scrunched up into a moue at having been caught out, and he was possessed with a sudden urge to kiss the tip of her nose. “I don’t have a distaste for Eleanor.” He gave her a look, and she blew a whistle of air through her lips like a horse. “Okay, fine, I’m not her biggest fan.”
“Why?” Don genuinely wanted to know. Arlene had barely exchanged three words with Eleanor. It was he who had to dance with her every night, who had to deal with her temper tantrums and her moods—and until two weeks ago, endure her seemingly undying devotion to Frankie.
“That’s irrelevant,” Arlene said in a tone that made it clear the subject was closed. “I don’t want to talk about Eleanor Lester. What I wanted to ask is why don’t you come with me? For Sunday dinner. I know Mom would love to see you. It’s high time you come home.”
Home. He liked the sound of that. He hadn’t called anywhere home in a decade. His parents had died within a few months of each other a year and a half ago, but their house had never been home anyway. Not really. Still, he shivered at the thought of being back there. Of having to face the ghosts that he was certain haunted those rooms.
“What happened to the house?” he asked. Part of him hoped it had been demolished, taking all his memories with it.
She brightened at the question. That wasn’t what he’d expected. “Mom bought the other half of the duplex and knocked down the wall in between. Said she needed more space for her grandkids to play.” He smiled. He liked the idea of the Morgans in the tiny half of the duplex where he’d grown up, banishing the sullen tension that had seeped into those walls with their laughter and love. “You don’t have to go to that side of the house though if you don’t want to,” she added more quietly, suddenly thoughtful.
He shot her a look of silent gratitude. For knowing what he needed to hear. “I’d love to come. And to see what Pauline has done with the place. I’m sure it’s far lovelier and homier than it was when my parents lived there.” He meant it too. His heart felt lighter at the thought of getting to see Mrs. Morgan and taste her cooking again. He’d missed it—and her—terribly.
Arlene reached out her hand as if to take his, but then drew it away quickly and buried her hands in her lap. He didn’t think she even realized what she’d done, but his heart swelled at her instinct to reach for him. Even if she hadn’t followed through. “Mom’s making apple pie.”
“Oh, well, in that case…” He put his spoon down and made a show of pushing the plate away from him. She laughed, and he realized it might be his favorite sound in the world. Odd. He hadn’t remembered her laugh having this effect before, making him feel buoyant and hopeful. Like nothing could ever go wrong so long as he could still make her laugh.
But it must’ve always done so and he’d forgotten. He looked at her and took in her face, the small wrinkles at the corners of her eyes and the scrunch in her nose. She looked relaxed and genuinely happy. He couldn’t think of anything more beautiful.